As they worked, the soldiers of the Sons of Heaven sang the appropriate working songs, taking them on trust, as always. It must be wonderful, Bardas thought, to have that kind of faith; so comforting, so much easier, like a log running on rollers instead of being dragged along the ground. Trust, believe, and it’ll make you young again – that’s what a sense of purpose can do for you. If only there wasn’t always some older, wiser man to hold a sharp edge to your throat and take the faith away, like Bardas Loredan during the Sack.
‘Asking for trouble, I reckon,’ Venart protested, yet again. He’d said it so many times that it was rapidly turning into a joke.
‘We’ll see,’ someone replied. ‘We’ve got them over the proverbial barrel. They need us; it’s business, pure and simple.’
‘They’re late,’ someone else commented. ‘They’ve never been late before.’
In the Long Room of the Island’s Chamber of Commerce, fifty or so representatives of the Island’s Ship-Owners’ Association (founded a week previously) were waiting to meet with a delegation from the provincial office, on a matter (as the invitation to the meeting had phrased it) of some urgency and delicacy.
‘It’s hustling, that’s what it is,’ Venart persevered, ‘and you know it as well as I do. You can call it what you like, but that’s what it is.’
Runo Lavador, owner of seven ships, sat on the edge of the President’s desk, swinging his legs like a small boy. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘it’s hustling. Perfectly legitimate business practice. We’ve got what they need – ships. They’ve got what we want – money. It’s for the parties to the deal to make their own bargain.’
‘We made a deal, though,’ said one of the few people in the room who agreed with Venart. ‘Going back on it – well, it doesn’t seem too clever to me. We’ve got a pretty good deal already, if you ask me.’
Runo Lavador shrugged. ‘If you don’t want to be here,’ he said, ‘then by all means bugger off. Nobody’s forcing you to do anything. Besides, you simply don’t understand the nature of the charter business. All along, they’ve been entirely at liberty to call it a day and walk away if they found a better deal somewhere else. They chose not to. Now we’re making a choice; we want more money. They can still walk away, any time they want. To listen to you, anybody’d think we were holding a knife to their throats.’
The tall, heavy doors at the other end of the hall swung open, and the Sons of Heaven made their entrance. Hard not to think in terms of pageantry and theatre when a party of them entered a room; first, an honour guard of halberdiers in half-armour, then a secretary or two and a couple of lesser clerks carrying desks and chairs and ink-horns; then the delegates themselves, both of them a head taller than anybody else in their party, and scurrying behind them, three or four unspecified attandants, cooks or valets or personal librarians. Look out, Venart thought, here come the grown-ups. He hoped they weren’t going to mind too much. They wouldn’t, would they? After all, it was only money that was at stake here, and so far the Sons of Heaven had given the impression of valuing money the way sailors value seawater.
Cens Lauzeta, the fish-oil baron, was sitting in the President’s chair. Nobody could remember electing him chairman, but nobody minded very much if he wanted the job. He stood up and nodded politely as the delegates processed (no other word for it) down the hall and sat down at the far end of the long table.
‘Good of you to spare the time to see us,’ said Cens Lauzeta, sounding even more cocky than usual (what was it about the fish-oil trade that brought out the boisterousness in people?). ‘We represent the Island Ship-Owners’ Association‚’
‘Excuse me,’ interrupted one of the delegates. ‘I don’t seem to recall having heard of your organisation before.’
‘I don’t suppose you have,’ Lauzeta replied cheerfully. ‘We haven’t been in existence for terribly long. Up till now, there hasn’t been a need. But here we are; so, if it’s all right with you, we might as well get on with the negotiations.’
‘By all means,’ replied the Son of Heaven. ‘Perhaps you’d care to tell me what we’re here to negotiate.’
Lauzeta smiled indulgently. ‘Money,’ he replied. ‘So far, you’ve chartered ships belonging to our members – no complaints on that score, by the way, you’ve been perfectly straight with us and we’ve been straight with you. But now,’ he went on, sitting on the arm of the President’s chair, ‘things are about to change. You’re going to take our ships off to a war; we don’t know how long this war’s going to last – well, how could anybody know that? – we don’t know when we’re likely to get our ships back, or whether we’ll get them back at all. No offence, my friend, but we’re businessmen, and we’ve been hearing reports about the way this war’s going that put a whole new perspective on the deal.’
‘Is that so?’ replied the delegate coolly. ‘Please enlighten me.’
‘If you like,’ Lauzeta said. ‘One column effectively wiped out; the colonel in command of another column killed in action; the enemy have mobilised and are on the move, taking the offensive – this isn’t what we all had in mind when the deal was struck. Those invincible armies don’t seem quite so invincible any more, and we think that changes things quite a bit.’
‘I see,’ said the Son of Heaven. ‘But you’re not disputing the fact that we have binding agreements with the members of your Association?’
Lauzeta shook his head. ‘Not the way we see it,’ he said. ‘What we’re saying is, one of the assumptions on which the contracts were based has changed. I’ve spoken to some of our leading commercial lawyers and they all tell me the same thing. A contract’s like a house; if the foundations collapse, the whole thing falls to the ground. As we see it, the contracts are null and void.’
The delegate raised an eyebrow. ‘Really,’ he said. ‘As far as my layman’s understanding of Imperial law goes-’
‘Imperial law, maybe,’ Lauzeta interrupted. ‘But the charters were all signed here on the Island, so they’re under the jurisdiction of Island law and Island courts; and I’m telling you, as of now the contracts are dead and buried. Fact.’
‘An interesting line of argument,’ said the delegate. ‘In which case, assuming your interpretation is valid, I suppose you want us to withdraw our men and return the ships.’
Lauzeta shook his head. ‘By no means,’ he said. ‘That’d put a serious crimp in your plans, and none of us want that. No, we’re quite happy to carry on with the agreement just so long as the agreed levels of payment are revised to take into account the likely additional time and risk. After all,’ he went on in a rather more conciliatory tone, ‘the last thing we want to do is fall out over this; the Island and the Empire have always been close-’
(‘No they haven’t,’ Eseutz Mesatges whispered in Venart’s ear. ‘Even with a following wind, it’s a two-day journey.’›
‘Shh,’ Venart replied.)
The delegate frowned and smiled at the same time. ‘You want to proceed with the existing agreement, but you want more money. Is that what you’re saying?’
Lauzeta nodded. ‘Bluntly, yes,’ he said. ‘I think it’s entirely reasonable to factor in an allowance for depreciation of goodwill and loss of business opportunities. For one thing, what do you think is happening to our regular business while our ships have been standing idle? We do have competitors, you know.’
The delegate conferred briefly with his colleague. ‘How much more money do you want?’ he asked.
Apparently, Cens Lauzeta hadn’t been expecting that particular question; he opened his mouth and closed it again, and said nothing. The delegate raised an eyebrow.